"Amazing...?" Jelena chuckled, a harsh, grating sound that echoed off the warehouse walls. She looked down at Joseph, at the face she had dreamed of tearing apart for a decade. "Huh. Then let me touch you more."
She didn't hold back. Her fists became a blur, raining down on Joseph's face with the force of ten years of grief. Every punch was a memory: standing by the fresh graves of her parents, the smell of earth and decay, the horrific task of trying to reattach heads to bodies in the morgue. She wasn't just hitting a man; she was exorcising a ghost.
Thud. Crack. Thud.
Blood sprayed across the concrete, painting a macabre halo around the chair. But Jelena wanted more. She wanted to erase that smirk. That faint, infuriating curve of his lips that said he knew something she didn't. That said he was untouchable.
The final blow landed squarely on his jaw, a hook heavy enough to knock a horse unconscious.
Joseph's head snapped back, his body jerking violently against the zip ties before slumping forward, nearly toppling off the chair. Blood pooled beneath him, thick and dark.
For a moment, the world spun into a kaleidoscope of red and black for Joseph. His vision blurred, his ears ringing with a high-pitched whine.
Fuck... this is bad, he thought, fighting the urge to let go, to slip into the welcoming void of unconsciousness. Don't let them come here... just let me die. Please, God, just let it end.
He wanted peace. After ten years of hell, after realizing there was no life waiting for him outside those walls, death felt like the only logical conclusion. If he could have ended it in his cell, he would have. But now, surrounded by enemies, maybe this was his chance. If he died here, the story would end. The cycle would break.
Suddenly, the heavy metal door at the back of the warehouse creaked open.
Olivia's heart sank. She had feared the Salvatore's, but what walked through that door confirmed her worst nightmare. This wasn't just a kidnapping; it was a summit.
A man stepped into the light, immaculate in a tailored black suit that seemed to absorb the gloom.
A gold signet ring glinted on his finger, his hair perfectly coiffed, his posture radiating an effortless, terrifying authority.
Gabbana Vicorio. The heir to the Vicorio empire.
Behind him stood another figure, lean and sharp-eyed: Vincente LaShonda.
Olivia stared, her breath catching in her throat. These weren't just gangsters. These were the ghosts of the old world, the heirs who had survived the purge, rebuilt their families from the ashes, and formed a new alliance in the shadows. They were the most wanted men in Europe, sitting right in front of her.
"Jelena, darling," Gabbana's deep, smooth voice cut through the tension. "Please don't kill him yet. I need to talk with our lovely Joseph. Freshen him up first."
He nodded to one of his men. A bucket of ice-cold water was dumped unceremoniously over Joseph's head.
Joseph gasped, sputtering as the water washed away the worst of the blood, stinging his open wounds but clearing his vision. He shook his head, water dripping from his lashes, and finally focused on the faces looming over him.
"My friend Joseph," Gabbana smiled, squatting down to eye level. "Do you recognize me? It's Gabbana. We used to play together when we were seven. Remember? In the garden?"
He gestured to the side. "And this is Vincente LaShonda."
Vincente stepped forward, his expression hard, devoid of Gabbana's false warmth.
The puzzle pieces clicked into place in Joseph's mind. The Vicorio's. The LaShonda's. The Salvatore's. The trinity of families that had been wiped out that night. And here stood their successors, the princes of the new underworld.
"Oh..." Joseph looked up at Gabbana, water dripping from his chin. A low rumble started in his chest, growing until it erupted into laughter. Deep, genuine laughter that shook his battered ribs.
"Is this... my welcoming party?"
Even Olivia felt a chill crawl up her spine. The situation was dire, lethal, and yet Joseph was laughing as if they were at a comedy club. It was unnatural. It was creeping her out.
"You really went crazy, huh, Joseph?" Gabbana asked, tilting his head, his smile not reaching his eyes. "All these years fucked you up. But I'm sure you know why we're here." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "So, Joseph... let me ask you nicely. How did you do it?"
He gestured around the warehouse, encompassing the three of them. "We all know. Deep down, we all know it was you. You killed my mother. My father. Their families. You burned our legacies to the ground." Gabbana's eyes narrowed, searching for a crack in Joseph's armor. "But I can't imagine how. You were in a hole. No phone. No visitors. So tell me: How did you orchestrate a massacre from a prison cell? And who helped you?"
Please, just don't let them come here, Joseph prayed silently, his mind drifting back to the darkness he craved. God, let me finally die. Fuck this.
They had made a fatal error. They assumed fear. They assumed Joseph would beg, would trade secrets for his life. They didn't understand that Joseph wanted one thing above all else: silence.
Eternal silence. And death was the only way to get it.
If he told them nothing, they might keep him alive, torture him, chain him to this miserable existence. But if he gave them what they wanted or perhaps, if he provoked them enough, they might just put a bullet in his head. And that was fine. That was perfect.
"How?!" Vincente suddenly shouted, losing his composure. He stormed forward, grabbing Joseph and yanking his head up. "How did you do it!"
He stared into Joseph's eyes, looking for panic, for guilt, for anything human. But he found nothing.
Just hollow, empty pools reflecting the dim warehouse lights. No fear. No anger. Just a vast, terrifying void.
Vincente let go, frustrated. He drew his pistol, the metallic click echoing loudly, and spun around, pressing the barrel hard against Olivia's temple.
"Tell us!" Vincente screamed, his face contorted with rage. "Tell us or she dies! Right now!"
I kill him, I kill her, I kill everybody for the answers... Joseph thought, a flicker of disdain passing through his mind. What low-life people they are.
Slowly, Joseph turned his gaze to Olivia.
She was trembling. Her legs shook uncontrollably, her eyes wide with the primal terror of impending death. But as Joseph looked at her, he realized something profound. She wasn't just scared of the gun. She wasn't just scared of Vincente or Jelena or Gabbana.
She was scared of him.
Because while everyone else saw a beaten, broken man, Olivia saw the smile. That faint, persistent smirk that hadn't left his face, even as his nose was broken, even as water drowned him, even now with a gun to her head.
It wasn't madness. It was excitement.
Pure, unadulterated excitement gleamed in those empty eyes. And that terrified Olivia more than any weapon. Because she understood the implication. If Joseph died here, if these gangsters pulled the trigger, what would happen next?
If the story was true, if Joseph really was the architect, the mastermind who had toppled empires from a cell, then his death wouldn't be the end. It would be the signal.
She could see it unfolding in her mind's eye: Joseph's body found tortured and bullet-ridden in a warehouse. The news spreading like wildfire. And then, the retaliation. Not from Joseph, but from the others. The shadowy figures who had done the actual killing. The loyal monsters who served the Architect.
They weren't mindless beasts; they were disciplined, ruthless, and utterly devoted. If their king was martyred, they wouldn't stop until every single person connected to his death was erased. Until the city burned again.
Olivia's mind raced. What would happen if he was killed by gangsters? What if his body is found like this? Would the hidden army rise up? Would they take revenge in his name?
She was trapped between a gun to her head and the potential apocalypse lurking behind Joseph's smile.
"Well?" Vincente pressed the gun harder, digging into her skin. "Talk, Cassian! Or I paint the wall with her brains!"
Joseph looked at Vincente, then at Olivia, and finally at Gabbana. The smirk widened, stretching the torn skin of his lips.
"You want to know how?" Joseph whispered, his voice raspy but clear. "You want to know who helped me?"
"Yes!" Gabbana urged, leaning forward.
Joseph leaned in as much as he could, his eyes locking onto Gabbana's. "I'll tell you everything," he said softly. "But first... you need to understand one thing."
"What?" Jelena spat, raising her pipe again.
Joseph's voice dropped to a chilling monotone. "If you kill me... you don't win. You just start the real war."
He paused, letting the words hang in the dusty air, watching the fear bloom in their eyes.
"And trust me," he added, the excitement dancing in his gaze, "you don't want to meet the people who are waiting for my signal."
Silence descended on the warehouse, heavy and suffocating. The heirs of the mafia empires looked at each other, uncertainty flickering in their expressions. They held all the cards, all the weapons, all the power.
But for the first time, they wondered if they were the hunters... or the prey.